The tea-house was busy that day. Crowded and warm. There there was a tense atmosphere and even the waiters (that Xander loved to talk to) kept their talks short, polite and formal. Everyone avoided their table.
Xander couldn’t blame them.
The opera singer dunked his biscuit in his tea. The poor cookie had already lost all its strength and texture but that didn’t stop Xander from sopping it more. The fire was on everyone’s mind. But Xander was the last person to talk about it.
“Lovely weather, don’t you think?” he asked. Just at the moment his little cookie gave in and pulverized in his tea. Xander grimaced. His beloved rose-hip tea now was filled with brown-flakes.
“I mean, sir, of course, it’s still winter,” he said. Xander shifted his gaze to the window they sat next to. It looked out over the busy boulevard between the Turf and the Turfmarkt. “The snow is getting lighter.”
And while the street scene seemed normal at first sight, it wasn’t hard to spot the changes. Jakes. Guards, watchmen, they freely roamed the streets. As if they expected an attack. Or counter-attack, anytime soon.
Xander took a sip from his tea. He grimaced again as the biscuit-flakes touched his tongue.
“Sir,” he finally said. No longer able to avert the discussion on everyone’s lips.
“Why did you do it?”
Xander set down his mug with a soft clung. Back onto his saucer. He eyed him with a slight frown.
“I understand that you want to keep the Gespans under control sir. But it’s the middle of winter,” Xander said. His gaze dipped down at his cup. Xander’s fingers tensed around its ear.
“As your political partner and your friend, I would have advised against it,” he said. Xander looked up again. “Sir. With of course my all due respect.”
He then gestured a waiter over, ordered a new cup (as the one he was drinking was undrinkable), and apologized for his inconvenience.
“I have a show later this week,” Xander said. He thanked the waiter who placed a new cup of rose-hip tea in front of him. Before shifting his topic back at Johnson.
“You’re welcome to come. I think it would be a good play on your part sir. To show the people of Drakenburg that you’re more than a pyromaniac,” he paused. “Th-those are of course not my words sir. But the newspapers.” He shook his head. Picked up a biscuit and…. Started to dunk it again. (If you don’t learn from the past you’re doomed to repeat it.)
“Maybe, you can market yourself as a cultural-man, Johnson. To regain the trust of your voters and followers. Duo is holding up the same facade. Sir.”
--
Shakes baby Maribelle like my frensh-toast this morning (With love and sprinkled with sugar)
Xander leaned in his chair. His gaze was fully fixated outside. While he was used to snow (Void was he used to snow), the woodlands had something magical to him. He stared at the glittering needle-leaves and the high treetops. There was no forestland in a rough 25km around Drakenburg. All of it was chopped for firewood or ship-building. The last time he’d seen a forest, a real forest was when he was 8.
“Oh, don’t you think the snow looks marvelous little miss?” he asked. As he finally managed to snap his gaze away from the trees.
“We should go outside and make a snowman,” he said. Beaming the child a quick smile. Before frowning. That’s what kids still do these days right?
Xander poured himself quickly a new cup of tea. Hoping that the sweetness of his tea would wash away the bitter taste of awkward conversation and lost-childhood memories. He did miss those lotus-cookies though. Not that he would say that out loud. Of course not.
He was thinking about grabbing a muffin - no - maybe a piece of lemon cake? When Maribelle started to talk. He looked up. Xander’s brows raised.
“I’m,” he said. A laugh audible in his voice, as he was happy the child finally talked to him. He adjusted his glasses. “Singing in a choir can be fun though! It makes you part of a group, music connects and such,” he said. He finally decided to pick a muffin.
“Everyone can sing,” he told her. His raised brows now slowly lowered themselves in a worried expression. “Sure it can’t be so bad…” Xander thumbed his cake for a brief second then laughed.
“Oh, yes, I’m pretty good.” He again played with the small two headed-eagle pin on his jacket. “But I worked hard too,” he muttered. Almost to himself, as is if he had to justify his success to himself and himself alone.
“Holy men?” Xander looked up. He couldn’t help but raise his voice in awe. “We haven’t seen holy men in 1080 years… Besides the Emperor of course.” Xander clapped his hands together.
“I love plays, I worked as a stagehand around your age!” He told her. Beaming her a smile. “Oh, you should join me someday…” he said. “I can maybe ask Sir Otto for permission? So we can see a play together, I’m sure you’d love it.” Xander nodded along with her chattering. As to encourage her to speak more.
They both felt quite when the maid entered. All the momentum was lost and Xander bit his lips.
Maybe I can ask her about those lotus-cookies, he pondered. No, too formal. Or her favorite music?
Xander rubbed the edges of his mutton-chops. Then looked up as Maribelle started to chatter again.
Thank the Void, she did.
“I did, cause I’m sure you have,” he said. Xander finally took a bite from his muffin he’d been holding that entire time. “What do you want to be when you've grown up?” he asked.
“A writer! Oh, a flower arranger? Those are noble goals miss Maribelle. Admirable goals.
“If I can help you achieve your goals, please let me know,” Xander said. He smiled at her. “I’m always happy to help.”
Xander set down the muffin. Plucked the spectacles from his nose and cleaned the fog of the glasses.
“No… I wanted to be a baker first. Then a poet, I failed in both,” Xander laughed. “My father arranged a small job for me in the local theater-house, that’s how I finally found my path.” Xander blinked. “Oh it’s orange,” he said in a heart-beat. “The great voyage from the Kaap,” Xander answered. He paused and so did the napkin resting on his glasses. For a brief second his ‘gaze’ dropped down at those tiny spectacles, then he laughed.
“Oh, my eyes are horrible little miss. The defects of old age.”
